


Safe Zone

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Basically Non-Compliant With Everything Avenger- and Spidey-Related Since Winter Soldier, Characters Are of Borg: They Have Been Assimilated, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Pollen, Sex Toys, Wade Has a PhD in Plot Physics, consent is important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24974905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: It's been a reasonably quiet night thus far, enough so that Peter's well ahead of the game on his usual patrol route, nothing really pinging his radar until he reached this quiet strip of apartment buildings.  Only now that he's here, he can't figure out where the danger's coming from, or even what his senses are classifying as danger this time.  There's got to be something, though...right?
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 61
Kudos: 633





	Safe Zone

**Author's Note:**

> I don't honestly care which Wade or Peter you want to imagine for this; I didn't have anyone in particular in mind, other than that I generally ignore everything that happened canon-wise after Winter Soldier, so there's like...literally one thing I ever intend to write with Holland's Spidey specifically, and this is not that fic. (Deadpool Movieverse is A-okay! :D I definitely prefer the movieverse versions of Weasel and Domino to comics canon, heh.) So yeah, I just tossed everything into a baking dish and made canon casserole, seasoned to (my) taste. Bon appetit!

The thing about the whole spider-sense shtick is that he lives in New York. There's _always_ something. If it isn't a cab driver trying to squeeze in an extra fare by playing fast and loose with the brakes, it's henchmen from two rival villain squads eyeing each other from opposite sides of the street. And who's the lucky guy sure to waltz right down the middle of anything sketchy occurring within a five mile radius?

"It's this lucky guy," Peter mutters under the mask, half-hoping to distract himself from the low-grade nagging of his senses. It's been a reasonably quiet night thus far, enough so that he's well ahead of the game on his usual patrol route, nothing really pinging his radar until he reached this quiet strip of apartment buildings. Only now that he's here, he can't figure out where the danger's coming from, or even what his senses are classifying as danger this time. The rooftops are deserted; there's nothing moving on the ground, and unless the faint music he can hear from a few floors below is loud enough up-close to have the neighbors contemplating homicide, he's got nothing.

Stilling his breath, he closes his eyes to focus entirely on his hearing and tries not to picture his usual patrol partner making devil horns behind his head instead of rabbit ears. But seriously, he would give a _lot_ for Daredevil's hearing right now, because without a clear call for help, that just leaves creeping around the sides of buildings like...well, like a creeper, and that's a little skeevy for his peace of--

He's moving before his mind quite clocks the faint scrape and click of machinery engaging: at his back, to the sides, from...really an unsettling number of directions at once. Instinct prods him to explode from his crouch into a vertical leap, barely in time. As he tucks his feet up under him, he peers down into the gloom, a cold shiver prickling his spine as the air below him is saturated with slender projectiles. The pressurized hiss he belatedly registers argues against bullets, but...darts? Possibly. Which might mean someone is looking to take him alive.

He flicks out a web to the nearest building, eyes raking the rooftop he vacates in a hurry. Something had to have fired that volley, and...there: what looks like part of the drainage system for the gutters periscopes up from the roof, but now that he's _seeing_ it, it's clearly made of stronger stuff than flimsy aluminum. There's far too many of them besides, jutting from the sides and tops of buildings, here and there a balcony. The whole area is seeded with the things, and--

"Oh, sh--"

He's swinging right into the path of a second barrage.

Abandoning his web, he twists as he drops, heart lurching as he feels the tiniest tugs at the material of his suit as he's grazed. Not badly enough for any of the darts to land or even nick the skin, but someone's been doing their homework. How do you hit a guy who dodges every blow? Give him nowhere to dodge _to_ , that's how. And that? Ordinarily he'd be feeling pretty confident about shaking off a tranquilizer quicker than his captors would expect, but that kind of forward thinking on their parts is really not setting a good precedent.

Right. He needs to get out of here, come back later to hopefully catch them dismantling their trap. He'll make them pick up all their darts, too, because of course the bad guys never think of stuff like that, and he is _so very tired_ of rounding up poisoned knives and abandoned guns and stray bits of alien tech. No one wants another Dog Walker Incident. In the meantime--

He throws out another web, arcing around and over the next burst of fire. Most of the darts clatter harmlessly off the sides of the nearby apartments, but he winces as a line of windows are laced with spiderweb cracks as he swings past. Lights are starting to come on as people wake up or move to investigate, and he needs to go, _now, now, now_ , before anyone gets the bright idea to peer out the windows for a better look.

He almost makes it. There's a major cross-street up ahead, broad enough to act as a sort of firebreak. If he can just get past it, he should be in the clear.

Already blaring a generalized alarm, his spidey-sense is just fractionally too slow to zero in on one final threat. Eyes widening behind his lenses, he spots the last, concentrated line of camouflaged turrets just as he swings into range, and then he's twisting, swapping webs as fast as he can fire off a new line, rolling and arching away as the air is filled with flickering silver.

He yelps as something slams into the meat of his thigh, bruising deep. He hardly feels the needle under that sudden, swift punch, but he's got bigger problems now than a few sore muscles.

He swings away as fast as he can, breathing only a little easier when nothing fires in chase of him. He can't stop until he's well clear, and the dart that caught him is still embedded in his thigh, whatever drug it was carrying fully dispersed by the time he pauses on a safe rooftop to pull it out. Nerves crawling from a combination of fading adrenaline and the now-redundant tingling of his senses, he stares at the dart weighed in his flattened palm and considers his options.

He should probably head home, but whoever laid that trap had known his patrol route well enough to expect him. If they already know where he lives, they could be waiting for him, and if they don’t, if the drug hits while he's on his way back, it might slow him down enough to lead them there. Then there's the matter of what they gave him, because so far he feels...fine. Not tired, not confused, not even a little bit tempted to run amok. He’s a bit hot under the suit, but he did just get one heck of a workout; his heart’s still rabbiting hard in his chest, cheeks prickling with a faint flush that only seems to be getting worse.

Peter frowns, taking a deep breath in through his nose and holding it before slowly blowing it out. It doesn't calm the restless itch crawling under his skin or cool the heat that blooms in its wake. The furrow of his spine and the hollows of his palms cling damply to the thin material of the suit, and his eyes widen as he feels the first stirrings of arousal begin to build.

"You've got to be kidding me," he groans, looking down, and--

Okay, then. Apparently he was wrong: sex pollen is an actual, real thing and not just a trope from the obscure comics Wade keeps going on about. And speaking of Wade, he was right about this, too.

Spandex really does not hide a mother-hugging thing.

***

Wade wakes with a start, drawing a gun even as he rolls off the couch, only to meet the unamused lenses of the Spider-Man mask through his living room window. The sky behind Spidey is all neon-glazed black, and even though they've never hashed out anything as formal as a schedule, having Spidey come knock on his window still has him feeling like a slacker.

"Webs!" he says, grinning anyway as he rises to his feet and holsters his gun. His mask hangs low over his brows from where he hiked it up in his sleep, but after a moment he decides 'fuck it' and nudges it up an inch higher. It's nothing Spider-Man hasn't seen before, and he hasn't run screaming yet. "Hey! Sorry I didn't catch you out there; just got in a few hours ago myself. So, what's the occasion?" he asks as he hauls the window up. "Slow night, or you need someone to cover that ass?"

"Well, it was a slow night,' Spidey grumbles, "right up until it wasn't."

Yeah, that doesn't sound ominous, and don't think he hasn't noticed that Spidey's still hesitating on the fire escape, one hand resting lightly on the windowsill. Usually he'd have slipped in past Wade and been halfway to the couch already.

"You okay?" Wade asks, eyes raking what little of Spider-Man he can see. "What happened?"

Spidey looks like he's about to speak, then closes his mouth with a quiet click of teeth. Now Wade's officially worried.

"Right," Spidey says, squaring his shoulders and shifting from his crouch to crawl through the window. "Listen. I'm counting on you not to make a big deal out of this--"

"Whoa," Wade says, falling back two steps in surprise, eyes glued to--look, it's not his fault, okay? He'd meant to check for obvious wounds, not concealed weapons. "Uh...I think you're already making a big enough deal out of this for both of us."

Spidey's hands twitch, but whether that's from the urge to cover an impressive erection or to web Wade in the face--non-euphemistically, unfortunately--is hard to say. "Focus, Deadpool," Spidey growls.

"Believe me, I _am_ ," Wade says. And to think he’d thought that was a cup. "So when you said slow night...."

"I ran into a trap," Spidey grumbles, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

Wade’s eyes snap back up as every muscle pulls taut. "You were drugged?"

"And I owe you a taco, because apparently sex pollen is real."

Shit. And Spidey came _here_?

"Whoa there, cowboy," Wade blurts out, taking another step back for good measure, both hands raised. "I mean, I'm flattered, like, _super_ flattered, and any other time, I'd be down for anything from a booty call to a shotgun wedding, but drugged consent is _not_ consent, and--"

"Relax," Spidey says with a snort, the tense line of his shoulders easing. "That's not what I'm here for."

Wade frowns, hands dropping only halfway as he tilts his head to the side. "Awesome, but...now I'm confused. Why _are_ you here, then?"

Don't ask how he knows Spidey's rolling his eyes right now. After so many nights of bad takeout and great team-ups, he just knows.

"I just got shot with some kind of _sex dart_ , okay? Forgive me if I don't want to go home and risk getting caught with my pants down--literally. I just...I need somewhere I can wait this out without the brute squad showing up in the middle of it. Preferably with someone still in command of all their faculties standing by."

And...Spidey came here?

"Aww," Wade says, dropping his defensive pose to clasp his hands under his chin instead. "I knew we were besties!"

"Uh-huh," Spidey says, his skepticism sounding more forced than usual. "Also I'm pretty sure I can trust you not to suffer an attack of the vapors and come back with something useless if I send you to make a supply run."

Wade perks up instantly. Now _this_ he can handle. "Ooh, yeah--you can't just grab your ankles and wing it. You gotta think _strategic_ , 'cause trying to beat it per orgasm when you should've been planning per hour? Not fun. Trust me, you do not want to deal with chafing when you're hopped up on the magic juice. That shit is not pleasant--"

"I'll take your word for it," Spidey breaks in, shifting restlessly again. Shit, the poor guy is probably hanging onto his dignity by his fingernails right now; he's definitely proving to be the grit his teeth and bear it type. "So, um...do you have, like...a guest room I can...?"

"Noooooo," Wade says slowly, trying to keep a grimace in check. He does have a spare room, sure, but it's not exactly fit for polite company. It's barely fit for him. "You can just...use the bedroom? I can bring you fresh sheets, and uh...stuff, and...wait out here?"

He's halfway certain Spidey's going to bail the moment it hits him that he'll be using Wade's bed, but instead he blows out a sigh of reluctant relief. "Yeah, okay. If you're sure. And thanks."

"Anytime," Wade promises, trying not to grin like an asshole. Spidey's one hundred percent welcome to his bed, whether or not Wade's in it, though obviously Wade has a clear preference. "So? Any requests before I head out?"

It takes a good eye for detail to read expressions under a mask, but Wade always pays attention to Spidey.

With a half-beat's hesitation--uncertainty? Shyness? Maybe he needs a catalog? Because Wade can totally get him a catalog--Spidey offers up a wry, lopsided smile. "Surprise me."

That he can definitely do.

***

Despite never having seen Wade's bedroom before, it's pretty much exactly what Peter had expected. A little cluttered, a little kitschy, because Deadpool embraces the 80s with gladness in his heart and a complete lack of shame. The sheets he dumps into Peter's arms before leaving are a little musty but well-laundered; the inevitable bloodstains, though terrifyingly huge, are barely a shadow against white cotton.

Settling gingerly at the edge of Wade's freshly-made bed, Peter picks nervously at the collar of his suit and tries to convince himself this isn't the most mortifying thing he's done in...oh, at least a month. It's just Wade, who has zero shame about a _lot_ of things, not just his love for all things retro. It's not like coming here had even been a hard decision to make. He knows that a good ninety percent of the people he knows would probably try to stage an intervention if he admitted to going to Deadpool with a sex-related emergency. The rest would have to think about it first before grudgingly admitting he'd made the right call.

The thing is, for all Wade's vocal...appreciation of him, he hadn't thought for one minute that Wade would take advantage of the situation. Tease him mercilessly, yes--but even that had dried up the instant Wade realized the matter was serious. So it's not that he thinks Wade's going to be awkward about this or try to hold it over him. It's just...weird to be alone in his friend's room--probably his best friend, now that the dust of the last few _amazingly_ terrible years has settled--in his bed, psyching himself up for a masturbatory marathon with the full knowledge that said best friend will be within earshot the whole time.

For some reason that makes his dick flex in interest, straining against the tight material of his suit, and he glares down at it in mute betrayal.

"Trying _not_ to make this weird, thanks," he grumbles. His dick doesn't care.

Wade isn't gone all that long, but Peter hadn't expected him to be. This isn't the best neighborhood; frankly, Wade's spoiled for choices, whether he decided to hit a convenience store for the bare basics or a specialty shop catering to the dungeon scene. It shouldn't take much time to grab what Peter needs either way. He'd sent Wade off with all the cash he had on him, but on a TA's stipend, that doesn't exactly equal a shopping spree. At this point he doesn't even care. He's been holding off, not wanting to be in the _middle_ of anything when Wade gets back, and while he's honestly grateful he forewent the cup today, he's sweltering inside his suit despite the top-notch air conditioning Wade has running, and if he doesn't get his hand on his dick in the next five minutes, he might actually explode. And not in a fun way.

He's not even embarrassed by the sheer relief he feels when Wade's "Honey, I'm home!" rings out from the front room, accompanied by the rustle of plastic bags.

Knuckles rap twice on the bedroom door, but it doesn't immediately swing open. "You decent, or do you want to play Marco Polo?"

"It's fine," Peter manages, voice emerging more strained than he'd like. "Come on in."

Wade pokes his head inside the instant Peter asks, mask still pulled all the way down from his trip outdoors. Peter honestly wishes he'd pull it back up again. It's probably shitty of him, but he's feeling a little exposed here himself, and it's weird feeling like he's the only one.

Still, there's something to be said for Wade's exuberant telegraphing of his every emotion. It's hard to feel self-conscious around someone who's blatantly doing the opposite of cataloging your every fault.

Once he sees Peter's still dressed, Wade steps in the rest of the way, holding both arms up proudly, two plastic bags swinging from one hand and three from the other. "I come bearing gifts!"

That...is very likely true, because there's no way the fifty-and-change Peter handed him would have covered five bags of anything. Unless Wade has some sort of frequent shopper discount, in which case--yeah. Stopping that line of thought right now.

"Wade," Peter starts to object, only to be steamrolled as Wade steps closer, peering into bags and separating two from the rest.

"Okay, so here's your water and some sports drinks, because hydration is gonna be important, and lube to tide you over while I get the rest of your goodie bags sterilized. Didn't know if you had a brand you liked, so I got a few different--"

"Uh," Peter says, trying not to squirm with embarrassment, mostly because he's afraid if he starts moving he won't be able to stop. "That's...thoughtful, but I'd...kind of just like to get this over with--"

Wade pulls his other arm back, hiding the remaining bags behind him. "You always sterilize your toys first, Spidey," he scolds in a voice gone solemn.

"Seriously, it's--"

"Do I really need to tell you horror stories of returned and repackaged goods?"

Peter swallows hard. That's-- "So I'll just...wait for you to sterilize those, then."

"Good man," Wade says approvingly. "Be back in a jiffy!"

He bounds out of the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind him before Peter can make another attempt to protest Wade's funding of Peter's involuntary sexcapades. Sure enough, when Peter checks the bag with all the drinks, he finds most of the money he'd handed Wade wrapped around a receipt for a ninety-nine cent taco from the place around the corner. Peter snorts in amusement despite himself. Of course Wade would collect on their bet and not...this.

Opening the second bag, Peter takes a moment to just stare. He's not a prude by any means, but he's never seen so many different kinds of slick in one place at one time. It honestly hadn't occurred to him that anyone would _need_ this big of a selection, and only maybe a quarter of it is flavored. He spares only half a second to wonder 'why flavored' before shunting that entire line of questioning into the recycling bin, well-acquainted with Wade's weird brand of thoroughness. He's half-dreading and half _really curious_ to see what's in the other three bags now, considering that they hadn't exactly talked specifics. He's not even sure Wade knows that he's bi; Wade flirts like he breathes, so that's not exactly a tell.

Pulling out a tall, clear bottle of 'personal lubricant,' Peter gnaws his lower lip, glances at the bedroom door, and tries to gauge how long he can hold off before losing his mind completely.

Two seconds later, he's tossing both bags to the other side of the bed and standing up to skin out of the Spidey suit as fast as he can without shredding it. The mask he hikes up to the bridge of his nose before losing his courage for anything more, even though he's been thinking about unmasking in front of Wade for a while now. Leaving it on feels about as modesty-preserving as a band-aid on a porn star, but the heck with it. If Wade gets an eyeful, he gets an eyeful. It's not like Wade isn't prepping actual sex toys for him right this very--

Freezing mid-hop as he balances on one foot, Peter nearly goes crashing to the floor, hands caught in clingy, uncooperative spandex.

Wade is prepping _actual sex toys_ for him right this very minute. He's about to get up-close and personal with something Wade's just had his hands all over, polished clean by a broad palm or drilled into with thick, scarred fingers--

Nope. No. Not making this weird. Besides, Wade had been in full costume just now; he probably still has his gloves--

"Fff--urgh," Peter groans, giving up on standing as he tips backward to bounce heavily on the edge of the bed. "Seriously?" 

Gloves. Wow. Not helping at _all_.

Okay. He has officially passed the point of purely physical symptoms and veered straight into intrusive thoughts. So far the effects of the drug are progressing exactly as described in Wade's lurid ramblings, and he's honestly so mad about that right now. He probably owes the man another taco.

"Focus," he grits out through clenched teeth, shoving the spandex off his other leg and kicking it off to the side. The advice doesn't work on him any better than it had on Wade.

Fumbling off the top of the bottle he'd pulled out originally, he peels off the safety seal and doesn't bother to screw the flip-cap back on. Pouring a haphazard puddle into the cup of his left hand, he rolls his fingers over his palm to spread the stuff around and tries to ignore the flush that spreads under the mask as he reaches for his cock.

The first touch punches all the air out of him, fist clenching down as his mouth falls soundlessly open. His braced right hand skids a few inches on the sheets until he sticks himself in place, hips shoving up as the bedsprings creak sharply under him. It's mind-numbingly _good_ , but he wouldn't call it pleasure: more like the guilty relief of peeling away the itch of a sunburn. He wants to keep going so badly he can feel it in his _teeth_ , and the sheer, single-minded need makes the back of his neck creep with alarm. If he hadn't been sure before, he is now. Going home, trying to deal with this alone, might have been the worst mistake he ever made, because now that he's started, he's not sure he can stop.

He catches his breath on a soft groan as he drags his fist back up, fingers rippling in one long pull. Running his thumb over the head of his cock at the top of his stroke has him jerking on the edge of overstimulation, and he really, really hopes that's due to how long he's been holding back. If this gets any worse, he may have to rethink his capture theory and start considering this a legitimate attempt to end him for good.

He grips tighter, shoulders curling in as he works himself faster. He tries to keep an ear out for Wade's return, but his focus keeps narrowing down to the slide of skin on skin, the restless hunger that builds apace with his arousal. This isn't going to take long at all, but something still feels off. Maybe it's how empty his head is right now: he's usually thinking about _something_ when he finds the time to get himself off, but he's been wiped clean of everything but friction and desperation.

Orgasm hits him like a lightning bolt, seizing every muscle and driving the breath from his lungs. Come spatters halfway up his chest, slicks the still-tight circle of his fist, but for all the intensity, the relief he was hoping for remains just out of reach. His nerves are still buzzing, a nagging sense of something missing pooling in his guts and scratching at the base of his skull, almost like he got interrupted right before he hit that final high.

There's a box of tissues on the nightstand, and he cleans himself up automatically, hissing through his teeth as his knuckles brush his dick. He's still as hard as he was before, and while ordinarily that might be something worth exploring, right now it's just uncomfortable. He already wants to go again, but the sound of approaching footsteps, deliberately heavy, has him tossing his feet up onto the mattress, throwing the sheets over his legs and bringing up his knees as he sits back against the headboard. Look casual. Right.

Another two raps on the door, softer this time, like Wade's trying not to intrude. "Marco?"

"You're fine," Peter calls back, a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm PG-13 for the moment."

"At least you're staying on-brand," Wade says as he opens the door.

Thanks to firefights, fights involving literal fire, and various suit malfunctions, they've seen a fair bit of each other over the last few years. Wade getting a private viewing of Peter's bare chest isn't exactly earth-shattering, but it's different this time with both of them knowing he's entirely naked under Wade's sheets. Wade still has his mask pulled down, so Peter can't tell if his eyes have gone wandering or not, and he's not quite prepared to examine how much the idea _doesn't_ bother him right now. Either way, Wade doesn't waste any time coming closer, the same three bags filled now with mysterious soft bulges swinging from one hand.

"Here you go! None of that's a hint, by the way," he adds as he hands the bags over, "though I wouldn't say no if you wanted to come back sometime and do a product demo for me. Or on me. Or _with_ me. I'm flexible."

"Don't feed a bi guy straight lines when he's this horny," Peter chides absently, ignoring the idiot part of him that relaxes, assured that all is once more right with the world with the resumption of Wade's usual banter.

"Huh. In that case, forget hints--I did an _awesome_ job, and you should totally hire me as your personal shopper."

Wade is...probably not wrong. When he peers inside the bags, he finds a small collection of novelty fleshlights, a vibrating cock ring, two bullet vibes and a weird curvy thing he's pretty sure is a prostate stimulator, though he's never tried one himself. There are three dildos in graduated sizes and a fourth that looks like a shiny black tentacle, all of it freshly-washed, squeaky-clean, and wrapped in paper towels to keep it away from the cheap plastic bags, a level of fastidiousness Wade bothers with for very few people.

Sizing up the contents, he knows he's looking at a stupid amount of money for a few hours' worth of discomfort, but also proof of just why he'd come to Wade in the first place. With no hard facts to go on, Wade had made no assumptions, preparing as best he could with nothing but Peter's comfort in mind.

Okay, so the tentacle is a little out there, but this is Wade. Weirdly thorough. Peter's used to it.

"Five stars," Peter says, glad he hadn't stripped off entirely after all. If he can avoid doing a full-body blush, maybe it won't show. "Extremely likely to recommend."

"That's what we like to hear," Wade says with a grin that would probably be blinding from the way it stretches his mask. "So is there anything else I can get you? Snacks? Magazines? Mood music? I could yell sexy things through the door? Or you could yell at me, but--"

"That's one of your kinks," Peter cuts in dryly.

"--so maybe stick a pin in that for now," Wade agrees, all easy teasing like this is just a normal day, a normal team-up gone slightly sideways, but ultimately no big deal. Despite the need fizzing impatiently under his skin, Peter's more grateful for that than he can say.

"I'm good," he says, holding himself carefully still despite the urge to fidget with the sheets in embarrassment. "Have I said thanks yet? Because seriously. Thanks."

"No problemo," Wade says with a mock salute, cocking his thumb over his shoulder as he starts backing for the door. "Just give a shout if you need anything. Oh, hey--I'll put a movie on!"

"Please do not put on porn," Peter calls after him, face burning. If he has to hear that right now, there's no way he won't connect that with Wade, on the couch, doing what any guy watching porn on his couch would do. He doesn't want to spend the next however many hours perving on his best friend when Wade's made his stance on consent perfectly, admirably clear.

"No? Then _My Little Pony_ it is!"

Peter groans as Wade darts out of the room, slamming the door behind him before Peter can throw anything at his back, but a laugh sneaks through regardless. Making him get off to the sounds of cartoon horses lauding the magical power of friendship? Wade's clearly trying to traumatize him.

He almost doesn't mind. Dwelling on that is _so much better_ than wondering why the Villain of the Week wanted him incapacitated by horniness in the first place.

***

Wade does not actually put on _My Little Pony_. He's a dick, but he's not _heartless_. He puts on _Jurassic World_ instead. It's a terrible movie, like not even the Grandmaster could have saved it bad, but Starlord and his dinosaur children are adorable. _Much_ cuter than the actual dinosaurs he's met, but that's Hollywood for you. Everyone gets to be the most wholesome versions of themselves once the studios step in.

While he's on that thought, he briefly considers giving his favorite symbiote a call. It's been a while since he caught up with them, and he's curious whether Brock's still clinging to his 'no pets' rule or if it went the way of 'yes clothes.' This isn't a good time for distractions, though; not big distractions, anyway. It's the perfect time for _little_ distractions, because otherwise he's got nothing to occupy his thoughts beyond the brain-melting awareness that _Spider-Man is in his bed_. For reals, in the flesh, and not like...'you passed out due to gross bodily harm, so I dragged you back here to recuperate.' Spidey had been fully alert when he'd crawled through that window, moving under his own power, sane enough to know exactly what was happening and how he wanted to deal with it. And he'd still come to Wade.

"Sap," he mutters at himself, but there's no possible way he's getting his grin under control, not even trying. At least he's not dancing around the living room chanting, "Spidey likes me, he really, really likes me!"

Well. He's being quiet about it, anyway.

Throwing himself back onto the couch, he nudges the volume up on Starlord's hilariously bad flirting and crosses his fingers that Spidey hadn't heard him. He figures his chances are pretty good, if only because Spidey's a little _busy_ at the moment, though you wouldn't know it from the sounds that aren't coming from the other room.

Wade shakes his head. _Damn_. That is some _serious_ commitment to characterization, because if that were him? He'd be moaning like a porn star by now while the boxspring band played its greatest hits. The neighbors would be calling the city about a faulty transformer just from the buzzing of all his vibes. Just. _So many noise complaints_. Not like Spidey, who's some kind of model of decorum and stealth, or maybe just really into the concept of being a good houseguest.

Wade bumps up the volume another few ticks. Not enough that he couldn't hear Spidey if Spidey wanted to be heard, but if he's holding back for Wade's sake? Not cool. He'd come here so Wade could look out for him; he's not going to do anything to make things worse.

 _Harder_ , maybe--but Spidey approved! And he didn't even get a tentacle dick chucked at his head!

Filled with a kind of restless joy, Wade taps his booted feet arrhythmically against the floor, fingers drumming on the couch cushions. His thoughts refuse to settle-- _Spidey! In his bed! Naked!_ \--and while that's spank bank material for at least the next decade, he knows Spidey's right about the potential for danger. Seriously, who uses sex pollen to _trap_ a target? Someone who doesn't understand plot physics, that's who. Or some contrary trope-reversing asshole who thinks they're being clever.

Or someone with more than sex pollen up their sleeves.

Yep. Time for a distraction. Just a small one, though. So he doesn't get caught with _his_ pants down--purely metaphorically--when the plot inevitably advances.

***

Going through his options takes a bit more concentration than Peter would like, but he rules out the fleshlights pretty quickly. Considering the letdown his last attempt turned out to be, he's not sure he wants to waste time on a fancier version of his own hand. Also one of the casings is an obvious rip-off of _SpongeBob Squarepants_ , and he's not sure if he wants to laugh until he cries or set it on fire.

Most of his other options seem like they'd be best used in conjunction with each other, but luckily he's got a Goldilocks' choice of dildos to pick from. The smallest is clearly meant for the curious or faint of heart, just enough for a newcomer to get his feet wet without stepping off into the deep end. The biggest is the whole entire deep end and the lifeguard too.

The middle one is just right: girthy enough he's going to feel it, with a satisfying heft and length, but not so big that the effort of working it in will be more than the payoff is worth. Electric blue, almost disturbingly realistic despite the color scheme, it's a good fit in his hand, though in one of Wade's big fists, it would probably look smaller than it really--

"Hngh," he groans, knocking his head back against the headboard once, twice, in a half-assed attempt to drag his mind out of the gutter. He gets it, okay? Deadpool is objectively hot, with a hip-to-shoulder ratio that could give Captain America a run for his money and an uncanny ability to make fighting look like performance art. _Wade_ , on the other hand, is plagued by self-consciousness, has trust issues a mile long, and has tactical distraction flirting down to a science. Peter's never certain at any given moment whether Wade's serious, throwing up a smokescreen, or just trying to get a rise out of him, and that's made it easy to just...not go there.

Except now he's in what certainly _feels_ like some sort of fuck-or-die situation, solo edition because Wade's proving yet again why Peter has yet to run out of second chances to give, and he's about five minutes from yelling at Wade to get his butt in here, except--

Even if Wade were willing to be argued into it, even if Peter could prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that his judgment isn't compromised, there's no way in _heck_ he's getting together with Wade over _weaponized aphrodisiacs_. Not only is that a recipe for angst and misunderstandings, he outright refuses to become the plotline for one of Wade's weird comics.

Which leaves him here: wriggling into a more comfortable position until he's half-sitting, half-lying back against the pillows, knees falling open as he braces his heels against the mattress. He pours out more lube to slick both his hands, one reaching to cup his balls and the other slipping lower to tease at his hole. It's been a while since he's done this; he's usually too tired for anything elaborate when he gets in from patrol, and when he has any time to spare in the mornings, he usually spends it sleeping. It's all muscle memory though, his body relaxing as he presses with the pad of a fingertip, testing his own resistance before sliding the first one in.

All at once he's strangling on a groan he tries desperately to swallow, hips canting up so he can press in deeper. He still feels empty, his ass clenching down hard even as he's scrambling to shove a second finger in, but it's nowhere near enough. He needs to _move_ , fill himself up until he can't think, can't spare even a fleeting thought to how his skin prickles with want, unwarmed by anyone's touch but his own.

He's barely prepped at all when he pulls his fingers out, slicks up the dildo with a sloppy fistful of lube, and does his best to take in all of it in one go. It's a stretch, the silicone nowhere near as forgiving as flesh, and as his body gives around the blunt head of the toy, his mouth drops open as his eyes winch tightly closed. A faint whine escapes him as the head pops in, and he knows he needs to be quiet, but every time he has to slide the toy out a fraction to work it deeper in, his held breath gets punched out of him in broken gasps.

When the hard bulk of the toy drags over his prostate, he claps a hand over his mouth, throat tight around a howl he refuses to voice. The thin film of slick still coating his palm and fingers leaves a tacky trail behind when he transfers his grip to the sheets, fist clenching as he bucks up to drive the toy deeper. Dimly he's aware of the television noise getting louder in the other room, but he's past embarrassment, past wondering whether Wade can hear him or whether he's being a terrible friend by making Wade listen and not touch.

 _God_ , he wants to be touched, but that's not happening, and he just--

Wait.

Are those dinosaur noises?

"Are you perving on that dinosaur tamer again?" he calls out before he can stop himself, amusement bubbling up in his chest even as his neck heats in mortification. He's supposed to be ignoring what's going on beyond this room, not engaging in conversation with it.

"He's a hot, single dad with four adorable daughters," Wade yells back, like that's any kind of answer. Actually, now that Peter thinks about it....

Laughing is awkward and distracting, considering, but being dragged out of his own head lightens some of the oppressive need that's fuzzing his brain. It's downright unsettling how his occupied hand just keeps pumping without any input from his brain, hips rocking up to meet each thrust, while there's just...nothing going on upstairs. Sex had been the last thing on his mind before this started, and despite the screaming blue dildo he's working himself over with, it's the last thing he wants to be thinking about now. Mostly he's thinking how much he'd rather be out there on Wade's couch, joining him in heckling the eye-wateringly bad characterization, especially in the villains.

It's almost funny: outside of a few incidents in his early teens, he's never thought of orgasms as inconvenient before. But this? This is just really inconvenient.

He scowls, jaw setting mulishly even as his pulse picks up again, breaths starting to hitch in his chest. Not that he's ever spent much time thinking about it before this, but he's always assumed that the worst thing about sex pollen--other than the whole lack of consent thing, of course--would be the embarrassment of throwing yourself at some random target. Turns out he's wrong: it's how impersonal and uninspired this all feels, just another bodily function gone wildly out of control. They might as well have dosed him up with sneezing powder; it probably would've gotten the same results.

He tenses, heels planting solidly as he reaches for his cock at last, so _close_ he can taste it. All the air leaves his lungs in a rush at the first pulse of completion, and for a moment he thinks it's fine. That delicious tension of being right on the cusp stretches as he paints his stomach with rope after rope, teases him with the promise of a drawn-out orgasm that'll wring him dry, but his cock gives out long before the feeling peaks, much less ebbs. He feels like he's still waiting, like he hadn't just come with enough force to melt him right into the sheets on any normal night. Like he's fallen down some kind of sensory rabbit hole where he's stuck in _almost_ and never quite reaches _enough_.

"Fuck," he groans as the hope of relief slips away, going stubbornly boneless despite how much he wants to just keep moving. He doesn't even feel the usual flutter of panic that May might somehow have heard him cursing. He wants to writhe right out of his skin or maybe scream out of sheer frustration. He _needs_ to come again, but coming just makes everything feel that much worse. How the heck is he supposed to get through this without losing his entire mind?

He picks his head up from the pillows when he hears a distinctive clatter, snorting quietly at himself for instantly recognizing the sound of guns hitting the coffee table. Wade has a tendency to clean his 'babies' when he needs to settle the noise in his head, which is a pretty good sign that neither of them is entirely unaffected. That's...actually good to know. It's something to deal with _later_ , but...good to know.

He breathes out a slow sigh as he drops his head back down, closing his eyes and ignoring the toy still planted deep inside him. He's not going to call Wade in here, even on the off-chance that having outside assistance might make things easier, but shouting through the door might be back on the table. At the very least, talking to Wade had distracted him, and when he wasn't focused so intensely on how he felt, he'd been able to deal with it a lot better. He'll have to keep his voice as normal as he can, and he should probably explain to Wade what he's doing and why it helps, but if anyone could hold a normal conversation with someone furiously jacking off in the next room, it's probably--

He freezes at the loud crash that echoes through the apartment, his spidey-sense flickering dully to life. He's not sure whether the tingle is muted because of the drug or because Wade's planted between him and whatever that was, but...that definitely wasn't the movie.

Sometimes he really hates being right.

"'Pool?"

***

It takes a few trips around the apartment to gather up his guns. Not so much because he's been storing them in strategic locations around the place, but because he lives alone. If after he comes home from a job he wants to strip off in the living room, or in front of the refrigerator while scrounging for cold pizza, or over by the skeletal remains of a potted plant he's pretty sure Al killed even before she gave it to him, who's around to care? And if the end effect is that he can't walk six feet without laying hands on a weapon, that's just a happy coincidence.

He considers starting with the knives, but even thinking about the rasp of a whetstone right now makes him antsy, and that's trouble he doesn't need. Cleaning his guns is almost meditative by comparison, a familiar puzzle with pieces he could shuffle and jumble and still reassemble in his sleep. On the oversized flatscreen, keeping him company while he works, a chubby security guard has just chosen a terrible hiding place.

Out in the hallway, five, maybe six guys think they're being stealthy.

As his front door gets kicked open, Wade grabs and throws one of the knives he's been neglecting, the hilt of the blade hitting the leader of the pack square between the eyes. The rest of the goons--newbies, gotta be--get caught in a minor pileup, two in the forefront tripping over the unexpected deadweight of their comrade and clogging the doorway. Okay, so maybe he can't blame it entirely on new hires and Vaudeville Night. If the huge eyes and rapidly-paling faces are any clue, he's not exactly who they were expecting to find.

"Oh, fuck," someone breathes from the back of the herd.

"'Pool?" Spidey calls from the bedroom.

"No worries," Wade calls back without rising from the couch, empty hands resting lightly on his knees. "Just dropped something," he adds with a slowly growing grin.

The brute squad looks properly horrified. Maybe they know the no killing rule is Spidey's thing, not his. Or maybe they can spot foreshadowing when it's rubbed in their faces.

"So are you the guys who drugged my Spidey?" he asks, all nice and friendly-like.

The guy in the back is chanting 'fuck' pretty steadily now.

He'll take that as a yes.

***

Peter knows he should probably get up. Pull his suit back on and his mask down and go out there and lend a hand. If he honestly thought Wade needed the help, he would.

It's just that Wade sounds like he's having the time of his life.

"Oh!" he hears Wade sing out as something hits the floor hard enough to rattle the walls in the bedroom. "Sorry, Spidey, I'm all--" Somebody shrieks, high and terrified. "--thumbs today! Don't worry, I'll have this mess cleaned up in no time!"

Peter wipes his cleaner hand off on the sheets just so he can cover his eyes, but then he has to laugh. "Seriously?" he asks himself, not for the first time tonight. Seriously, it's this guy?

And yet here he is: drugged to the gills, halfway to being incapacitated by lust, with bad guys at the door, but instead of looking for a direction to bolt, all he can do is lie there and snicker as Wade mocks their attackers. The thing is, he knows it's handled. Wade may be an irreverent goofball at times, but he can take care of himself and Peter too. He even seems to want the job, which is kind of a big deal to a guy whose only real experience of family is people who stepped up to the plate when asked and never once made him feel like a burden. 

Yeah, this is the guy. If Wade wants it too, then Peter's all in.

That said, he really hopes Wade doesn't kill whoever that is out there. Not only would he have to vocally disapprove, but he really wants to know who they're working for, what the plan was, and how they tracked him here.

***

Final score leaves Wade with one busted lamp, a throw rug he might as well replace, five unconscious guys, and one optimistic fuck making a valiant attempt to army-crawl to the door. Sauntering over to the last man in any shape to answer questions, Wade wedges the toe of his boot under the guy's middle and flips him over with more consideration than the asshole really deserves.

"Please," the guy starts babbling, dribbling fresh blood down his chin from a busted lip. He's the biggest guy of the lot, but also the most gutless; he was the last one to go down, mostly because he'd been hanging back the entire time. "I'll go, you'll never see me again, I swear--"

"Aw. You wanna run out before the party's over?" Wade mock-complains, crouching down beside the guy and pinning him flat by shoving his pointer finger in the middle of the guy's chest. Gutless freezes instantly, blinking up at him owl-eyed. "Because I was thinking we could play a round of Twenty Questions next. Or Spin the Berretta, if that's more your speed. I know all the classics!"

"I--" Gutless starts, eyes wavering as he's caught between two terrors: the distant threat of his employers and the far more immediate problem of Deadpool. "I don't...know everything," the guy coughs up at last. "They just hired me to bring him in. They didn't, like... _monologue_ at us, you know?"

"Who's they?" Wade asks, not letting himself get derailed by a rant on the declining standards of modern villainy and how no one has respect for tradition anymore. Skipping the monologue. That's so unclassy.

"I don't know," Gutless admits, with enough dread in his voice Wade halfway believes him. "Just--two guys with a lab, a bunch of techies, maybe four guards too good to get their hands dirty," he rushes on before Wade can resort to stronger methods of persuasion. "There was a bunch of Oscorp stuff lying around, but...."

Wade snorts. "They're like the IKEA of evil. Moving on. Why dope Spidey up with sex pollen? What was the plan?"

Gutless stiffens, the blood draining from his face. "What?"

"Amped-up aphrodisiacs. The love juice. Super Viagra. Whatever."

"Oh, Jesus. Is that what got him?"

Wade frowns. Not only does the guy sound surprised, like maybe there'd been options, he sounds _really_ fucking nervous. Huh. So maybe Spidey's own healing factor had been dealing with it after all, just not as efficiently as anyone would like.

"Yep," Wade says with studied casualness, lacing his fingers together and resting his elbows on his knees. "Lucky for you, I wore him out a bit already. Healing factor, you know. But man, I had to get out of there before he went all Black Widow on me--and I'm not talking ScarJo, though she could choke me out any day. But seriously. Proportionate strength of a spider combined with whatever you guys gave him?" Wade whistles, low and quiet. "I mean, it's only a matter of time before he gets horny again and breaks down that door, so if there's some kind of antidote...."

"Fuck. Oh, fuck," Gutless whines, digging his heels into the floor to push himself further away from the closed bedroom door until Wade drags him back by the ankle. "No--I don't know, maybe? It wasn't supposed to--there was a _range_ ," Gutless insists, voice thinning with panic. "They knew they'd have trouble hitting him, so they set up this arena--wall to wall traps, but they weren't sure what would stick, so they tried a little of everything. Paralytics, poisons, knockout drugs--if they could load it in a dart, they loaded it in the fucking darts. There was a tracking component too; I don't know what. We were just supposed to pick him up once he stopped moving."

Huh. Sounds to him like a bunch of well-connected gaming nerds had a good idea and ran with it. Too bad for them Wade takes personal exception to folks messing with his Spidey.

"And I'm guessing you thought you'd be tracking him back to his lair, not mine. Well, I tell you what. I don't really like surprises, and I've had kind of a lot of them tonight. So why don't you tell me where your employers' base is, hmm? Compensation for my pain and suffering," Wade says flatly, like being Spidey's stress ball for the night would have been any kind of suffering...for _him_ , at any rate. He's still pretty pissed on Spidey's behalf no matter how you slice it.

And speaking of slicing....

Gutless casts a fearful glance at the bedroom door. "Can--can I leave after?"

Deadpool grins. "I'll even help you to the door."

***

Peter's gasping through the aftershocks of his third terrible orgasm of the night when Wade raps quietly for his attention. "Hey...I should take out the trash before it grows legs," Wade says, relieving at least one of Peter's fears. If the guys Wade took down could still walk out under their own power, then Peter has no reason to feel guilty for leading them here, other than inconveniencing a friend. "Think I can get away with just tossing it out the window?"

Peter snorts. "We're five stories up, Wade. It might break open on the pavement," he adds quickly, "and there are kids in this building."

"Right, right. Guess I'll call someone to haul it away, then. You want the deets after that, or you wanna wait until you're back to normal?"

"The sooner the better," Peter decides, shifting uncomfortably as he slides the toy out of himself. More lube is definitely in order, or possibly a change of pace. Wade's been right about everything else; he intends to take his warnings about chafing to heart. "What's the chance of more garbage getting dumped on the doorstep?"

"Slim to none," Wade replies, his tone skirting between disappointment and a certain dark satisfaction. "And if it is, I know exactly where to find our litterbugs."

Relief number two. Despite getting off to a horrible start, his night just keeps getting better.

Wade wanders off for a bit but doesn't leave the apartment, though Peter's fairly sure he'd like to track down the person--people?--who started this mess. Wade's a good guy like that, even if his methods sometimes need curtailing. Not long after, someone knocks on the door--politely, which argues against it being one of Wade's mercenary buddies, but you never know. Maybe there's a service you can call for this sort of thing? He's not sure how to feel if there's a service you can call for this sort of thing.

There's a brief period of shuffling--apparently this is a team effort--and then the front door is shut to the scrape of a ladder-backed chair being wedged under the knob. Peter winces. He'll offer to pay to have that fixed, even if Wade will probably ignore him. It's his fault Wade's door got broken in the first place.

He really tries to keep his hands off himself, his mind clear, but by the time Wade comes back, he's bucking into the soft, slick grip of a fleshlight-- _not_ the SpongeBob one--bitten lip trapped between his teeth. He probably sounds a little breathless when he tells Wade to start talking, but Wade doesn't miss a beat, just launches into a recital of everything he learned.

"--but the minute he said 'arena,' it just clicked, you know? I was like, 'Holy shit, they prepped for this like a boss fight.' It was so fucking obvious, amirite?"

A hitching laugh escapes, but fuck, he can't-- "Hey," he forces out, eyes half-closed, rocking up in short strokes. "If I'm a boss, does that make you a miniboss?"

Wade's bark of honest laughter makes him smile, right up until Wade's voice drops into a deep, raspy purr. "Oh, babe. I swear I'm not mini _anything_."

Peter shudders. Wade's voice is as damaged as his skin, but that rough growl has always sort of gotten to him. Not so much when Wade's just fooling around, but when he talks like that? Straight to Peter's lizard brain, which is overworked enough already, and it's just--too much right then, all his good intentions going out the window as he comes with Wade's gruff promise in his ears.

He's not sure whether Wade heard him or not, or whether the precise nature of what he heard was obvious or unclear. Wade clears his throat after a moment, but that could have just been because Peter didn't answer, and he usually can at least muster a martyred groan, just to prove he's listening. "So, uh...you good? Can I get you anything?"

Peter considers it carefully as he lies there catching his breath. Maybe he shouldn't. But at least he's sure Wade won't rile him up on purpose. "Keep me company?" he asks at last. "Not like that. Just...it feels stronger when I don't have anything else to focus on, but with a distraction, it's...not so bad."

"You sure?" Wade asks, hesitant. "I could toss you my phone. You could watch cat videos."

Peter chuckles, the wobbly feeling in the pit of his stomach dialing back as Wade's voice goes back to his version of normal. "I'm sure. I mean, if that's not...if it's too weird, uh--"

"Pfft. This isn't even the weirdest thing I've done _today_. Did I tell you anything about the job I was out on earlier? 'Cause man, talk about weird!"

He can hear Wade settling down just outside, the door rattling a little as Wade sits and puts his back to it. It means he's definitely going to hear whatever Peter gets up to in here, but it also means nothing's getting through that door so long as Wade's there. As compromises go, he'll take it.

"Tell me about it," Peter says as he cracks open a water bottle, and that's all the invitation Wade needs.

***

It's around dawn when Spidey lets loose with an entirely different-sounding groan, one Wade was already familiar with long before this impromptu slumber party. " _Finally_ ," he says with feeling, the mattress making little 'paf' noises like he'd thrown his arms and legs out like a ragdoll. He's slurring with exhaustion, but that's to be expected. He knows Spidey doesn't sleep much, but it's long past all good little heroes' bedtime. At least it's Saturday.

"It's over?" Wade asks, just to be on the safe side.

"I can safely say I never want to touch my dick again. Except to pee, which I need to do _right now_. And shower. God, I need a shower," Spidey grumbles as he hauls himself up off the bed. "And the hot water at my place sucks, so--"

"Yeah, use mine," Wade offers, picking himself up off the floor as well. He's a little stiff from sitting so long--and a little stiff in other ways from listening to Spidey's muffled gasps and the slick drag of lubed skin for hours--but it's nothing a few stretches and some quality time with his right hand can't fix. "Feel free to borrow some clothes too, if you want."

"You're a lifesaver," Spidey says and immediately starts digging through the dresser.

He shuffles out only partially in his Spidey suit, the bottom half pulled up but the top wrapped around his hips, the arms tied in front. He's still wearing his mask, hiked up to the bridge of his nose, and he's got an old tee and a pair of Wade's drawstring sweats rolled up under one arm. He's moving like an old man, undoubtedly sore, but it looks more like overworked muscles than outright pain, so maybe Wade doesn't have to work ahead of the class right this minute and go kill the fucks who caused this. Knowing Spidey, he probably wants to handle it himself.

"You hungry?" Wade asks, tilting his head towards the kitchen as Spidey stumbles past. He smells like he just escaped from a sex den, and Wade's mouth waters for reasons that have nothing to do with food.

"I could eat a space whale," Spidey admits, stomach grumbling right on cue.

Wade grins. Sometimes he thinks Spidey's stomach is his best wingman; he can always count on it to have his back. "Got it. One space whale, coming up!"

As much fuel for his fantasies as he's gotten tonight, it's nice to just relax back into their usual banter, Spidey warning him not to open any portals, and how does he know space whales aren't endangered, and think of the intergalactic ecosystem. Wade plays along, because you don't just tell a nice guy like Spidey that his beloved space whales are an invasive species, not to mention total assholes. There was a _reason_ no one cared when the Chitauri started weaponizing them.

When Spidey disappears into the bathroom, Wade gets started on cooking. He pulls out all the stops, like he's just regenerated his entire body and is about to eat anyone and anything that doesn't run away fast enough. Hopefully that'll at least make a dent in Spidey's appetite.

By the time the kitchen table starts looking like an all-night diner blew up on it, Wade starts to wonder whether Spidey fell asleep standing up again, but then the shower finally cuts off. That's good news for his self-control, because having to haul a wet, naked, sleepy Spidey from the shower and back into bed to sleep it off would just be...unfair? Torture? Fanservice? He doesn't know, but he doesn't like it.

"Order's up," Wade calls without looking as the bathroom door opens, depositing juice and silverware by their plates. "Hope you're awake enough for some down home cooking, 'cause I aim to fix you up ri--"

The guy who slides into the seat closest to the bathroom is young, maybe mid-twenties, with sleepy brown eyes and wet brown hair sticking up in all directions from a brisk toweling. Wade's shirt hangs off him, but not as badly as he might have thought. Under the suit, Spidey's pretty ripped, not that you'd expect it from that pretty face.

 _Fuck_ , Spidey has a pretty face, but why is he showing it to _Wade_?

"Uh," Wade says, ready to clap his hands over his eyes at the first sign of panic in Spidey's. "I dunno if maybe you think you're asleep, but you might want to go check the mirror, because I think you forgot something...?"

"Nope," is all Spidey says before he falls on his food with the enthusiasm of a starving lion, leaving Wade to recover from his stupor in his own time.

"Uh," Wade says again, slowly sitting down across from Spidey. "Okay...?" He knows it's rude, but as much as he hates it when other people do it to him, he can't stop staring.

Spidey doesn't seem to mind, moaning his appreciation around a mouthful of eggs and salsa. "This is so good," he mumbles from the corner of his mouth as he chews. "Thanks for cooking, man."

"You bet," Wade says on autopilot, reaching for his glass. He doesn't even want to eat anymore, doesn't want to be distracted by food when he could be drinking in Spidey's face. Holy fuck, _Spidey's face_. If this is...fuck, he hopes this isn't Spidey's way of paying him back, because he didn't host Trope Night in the hopes of getting something out of it. Then again, he can't really see Spidey going the whole honor-fueled equivalent exchange route without at least making some kind of speech, and Spidey's just...stuffing his face. Sitting at Wade's table like it's any other morning after a shit patrol or too long a marathon of gaming. Just acting totally normal, if normal included seeing each other unmasked.

And like...he could maybe...well. Except Spidey's _eating_. But...later. Maybe. Or next time. At least seeing Wade's ugly mug won't be as big a surprise for Spidey as this was for him. He's seen most of it already.

Rucking his own mask up to the bridge of his nose, Wade takes a sip of his juice. Spidey glances up, tosses him a quick smile, and goes back to drowning his pancakes in maple syrup. Right. So everything is just...cool.

Cool, cool.

Spidey's got a food baby to nurture by the time they're done, Wade still nibbling on a single piece of toast, in awe of how much Spidey can put away. Clearly Wade's been doing God's work in plying the guy with mountains of takeout, but working a few more home-cooked meals into their routine probably wouldn't go amiss. And if that dumbass saying about the way to a man's heart being through his stomach holds any water--because seriously, what a detour--well, hell. Wade's game.

"So, uh...sorry about the mess," Spidey says out of the blue, the tips of his ears going pink. "I'll pick up in there before I go, and uh...air the place out? I can do the laundry? And your door--I can definitely get that fixed--"

Wade chuckles, waving him off. "Nah, forget the door. Maintenance guy comes up here once a week whether I call him or not; he's used to it. And if you want to take any of your toybox home, feel free--think of it like a hotel gift bag. But just so you know, I am _never_ changing those sheets," he teases with a toothy grin.

Spidey narrows his eyes. Other than the sheer level of hotness he'd grossly underestimated, it looks pretty much exactly the way he's been picturing since day one. "If you ever want to see me on them again," Spidey says in his best 'no killing,' voice, "you'll change them _today_."

Wade freezes. Maybe he's the one asleep on his feet, because he's pretty sure Spidey just said 'again.' As in implied there might be a repeat performance. In a way that might involve two people, without the aid of drugs or boss arenas.

One of Spidey's brows quirks pointedly up, expectant.

"On it," Wade says and bolts for the bedroom, only to find himself snickering his way through a punch-drunk wrestling match when Spidey tries to stop him from reentering the den of sin. The best bit? Spidey's laughing too.

All in all, it's a pretty good morning.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally got to the point where it asked me to enter the work title and went "...well, shit." *laughs* So since I had boss arenas and gaming on the brain, I just went ahead and declared Wade's bedroom a no-PvP area. But it's, uh...probably not newbie-friendly, if you know what I mean. *ahem*


End file.
